The Invocation

Searching for the exit in a maze of my own mourning.

This is the quietest piece in the haus, and the heaviest. No color was allowed in: grief doesn't come in color. Just graphite pressed into paper until the paths turned back on themselves, the way loss makes every familiar room a labyrinth.

An invocation is a calling-in. Drawing this was mine: naming the thing in order to walk through it, corridor by corridor, toward a door that had been there the whole time.